


Memories Painted on Paper That Never Dries Down (In One Month, The Clouds Parted Over the Sun)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: Chrono Trigger
Genre: Angst, Death and loss, Fluff, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, actually kinda depressing, because Magus is a character that exists, collection of drabbles, i never realised how sad Chrono Trigger is but man is it sad, short and unrelated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-22 06:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 10,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: Based on the Chronotober prompts by @chrono-the-babe on Tumblr.A series of very short drabbles/oneshots(these are all unedited, pretty much, and have no clear plot/idea before writing. therefore, they’re not too great)





	1. Promises That Can’t Be Kept (Royalty)

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I’m doing this bc I’m also doing chronotober but like.... how it’s supposed to be done, with actual drawings but I really, really hate my art and I’d like to offer something of at least some quality to this fandom.

Her hands trace the edges of her pendant. Gloved fingers smooth against rough stone, surface covered in nicks and bumps and marks of a time before she could ever call it hers.

It feels soothing against her palms, one side cold, the other warm where the pendant meets flesh and blood. She doesn’t understand what it is, but she feels a great power surge beneath the dull stone and rusting chain. 

Her fingers clench around it, nails digging into her palms where her hands meet. The pendant is a heavy solitude, something she can hold onto as the world around her sinks.

_War_. Her mind whispers. _All around you. War. _

Palace walls made of cobbled stone stand around her. Wind, a cold draft, flutters through gaps of slab in weathered rock. 

Peace, quiet. It’s too much. As if there is no life, nothing.

Just her, alone.

“My dear, are you alright?” The king, her husband, speaks. His voice is the low rumble she has grown so used to, tired, worn, weary. It makes her heart ache.

She unclenches her hands, fingers sore and stiff as she stretches them out, long and thin and delicate. Weak. 

She does not turn to face him, but she can hear the gentle thud of his footsteps, his boots heavy against the wooden floor.

“You worry about Cyrus.”

His voice seems to echo around Leene’s head, as if the very inside is hollowed out. Empty.

His hand rests on her shoulder, ever so hesitantly. She can feel the brush of his fingertips, a nervous request for something more.

She turns into him, folds herself up into his arms and feels the warmth that resides there. His heart beats, she can feel the life bleeding through his veins.

He is alive.

She is too.

“Not just Cyrus...” her voice escapes in a breathless sigh, quiet and soft like the brush of wind. “Glenn, too.”

She pauses, swallows. Blinks, hard.

Her husband squeezes his arms, just ever so slightly. The pressure is familiar. Safe.

“They’re so... _young_. Glenn, especially. If anything were to happen to them-“

Breaking off, she buries her face into the king’s soft, velvety cloak.

She inhales and she can smell the forest. Home. 

“Whatever may happen, we will overcome this, together.” He whispers, voice muffled against her hair. His breath tickles her ears, the gentle sigh of a ghost against her skin. 

She thinks of Cyrus, the wildness that seemed to possess him like a cyclone. Never content to be still, always itching for excitement, for something to do.

Danger lurks around him like darkened clouds. Lightning flickers and she feels a sense of dread swirl in her heart. 

The king’s arms are warm and safe around her. He acts as something solid, her rock that keeps her tethered to the ground.

She had always detested that. As if she had secretly resented her husband for keeping her contained, safe behind the cold palace walls.

She closes her eyes.

His arms, ever so strong, begin to tremble.

She thinks of Cyrus, of Glenn. She thinks of the war that rages around them, the Mystic army that draws nearer every day.

She thinks of her husband, the royal string that binds together, forever intertwined with history.

“Together...” she whispers, and the words feel warm on her lips. “I would like that.”


	2. From the Sky, Down Poured Fire (Mourning)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azala wonders if this really will be the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmm hey gotta get some content for Azala. love her. if I had more time I’d like to go more in depth into her character. feel like she’s quite interesting, but unfortunately I don’t have the time.

  
Breaths, ragged. Choked. _Inhale, exhale._

_Inhale. Exhale. In-_

Azala splutters, air getting caught in her throat. Lungs burning, her claws dig into the solid brick beneath her. The earth, constructed and not quite real, doesn’t give.

Nails, sharp and pointed like curled daggers, scratch uselessly on the slate below.

She presses harder, pushing against the floor with all her strength.

Her body does not move. She remains flat, sprawled out, as if she is already dead.

Ayla’s face flashes before her eyes. The ape’s strange gentleness as she had stared down at Azala with her teeth chewing on her bottom lip. She hadn’t flinched when Azala had snarled at her, choking out a curse in the ancient tongue of her people.

Instead of fear, Ayla’s dark eyes had burned with a fiery intensity that had stirred something from deep within.

Maybe, if things were different, she could have allowed Ayla to... _take her away._

She doesn’t want to say _save_, she doesn’t want to use that word. As if she’s weak, as if _she_ would ever need saving.

She’s fine where she is. She’s got too much pride, even now, to take aid from such mindless creatures as the apes.

A part of her, a small part - so small that she can pretend it does not exist at all - feels regret.

She wonders if she could have really changed her fate, fought against death with tooth and nail.

She wonders, just for a blind moment, if their gibberish about the future and days after tomorrow were true.

The three young looking apes had been wearing the strangest clothes, nothing like the bundled mass of rags that Ayla’s people wore. That robot, too. The frog.

Maybe they really had been from another time.

The air around her grows hot and a feeling of uncontrollable dread stirs like noxious fumes against her skull.

A deep, guttural rumble cries out.

_It’s coming._

She can’t see, not really. But, even with her vision blurred, she can see the fire across the horizon.

It burns bright.

Hot. _It’s hot._ Scalding against her skin.

Lavos falls, plummeting towards the ground.

Fire spreads and the darkness creeps in.

With a last breath, one deep inhale, she closes her eyes.

_Good luck,_ she thinks. _Don’t let this be the end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys enjoyed this :))) it’s not the best and it’s not very long but I’m supposed to write 31 of these things 😫😫


	3. What We Make With Our Own Two Hands (Weapon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, this time, Lucca’s new invention won’t go horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, plot wise, takes place sometime after Magus joins the party.
> 
> I know Lucca doesn’t make the Wondershot, but I always imagined that - if she were to make a weapon - it would be stupidly op yet also sometimes utterly useless.
> 
> (Edited bc wow I did not realise Crono’s name has no H in it. huh.)

“Lucca, what _are_ you doing? Marle asks, leaning against Crono as she pokes experimentally at the smouldering fire. Her legs are tangled together with his, one of their hands tightly intertwined. Occasionally, Crono traces his thumb over the curve of her wrist and the smile she shoots up at him is so soft, so tender, Lucca almost feels like she’s interrupting something.

With Frog, Ayla and Robo gone off on some search for food, the campsite feels unusually quiet. Although the silence is welcome after such a long day, the boredom gradually begins to settle in.

“Hmm?” Lucca mumbles in reply, not looking up as she sticks her tongue out. She doesn’t appear to be paying attention, instead focused on the jumble of cogs and screws sprawled out in her lap.

“I said, _what are you doing?_” Marle huffs, impatience tinting the edge of her voice. She sits up with a petulant sigh.

Some of her blonde hair escapes her bun, falling down in curled tangles round her ears.

She leans forward, brow furrowed as she stares at Lucca’s hands, watching in a strange sense of awe as Lucca’s clump of scrap metal slowly begins to take form. Crono simply observes, hand tracing soft shapes up and down Marie’s wrist.

Magus snorts from the sidelines, a sneer contorting his face as he looks between Marle and Lucca. He goes ignored.

He’s lucky Frog’s such a softie. If it had been their choice, he wouldn’t be standing here at all. 

Lucca doesn’t reply straight away, still seemingly lost in her own little world. Marle almost debates asking again, but she’s cut short as Lucca heaves out a sigh, roughly digging her palms into her eyes.

“What am _I_ doing?” She asks, looking up. Marle nods and Crono offers a thumbs up. Magus complains under his breath.

“I’m making a weapon.” Lucca grins. She tilts her head, pausing for a moment. “_Well_, another one.”

Marle gasps, smiling brightly. “That’s so cool! You’re, like, a genius!”

Compliments always come so easy to Marle, and Lucca finds herself glowing under the praise. Crono’s a good friend, but one word answers and smiles can only go so far. Lucca quite likes having someone like Marle around. 

“You really think so? As in- _yeah_, I know I am.” Lucca’s grin is confident, but a light flush paints her cheeks. She feels a sense of pride that she’s never really gotten the opportunity to revel in before. Back at home, her abilities seem so stunted against her father’s. But right here... she feels _strong_. Important. Like she’s really doing something.

Crono gives her another thumbs up, a broad smile splitting his face, his eyes crinkled at the edges.

Magus glowers over them, expression dark and uninterested - not that anyone is really paying attention to him.

Lucca laughs, finally tightening the last screw of her new weapon.

“Done!” She shouts, holding it up, far above her. The scrap metal, meticulously filed and shaped, glows under the soft firelight.

She hopes that, this time, her invention will work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys enjoyed, already finished day 4 but it needs editing and posting. hopefully it’ll be up later today and then I won’t be behind anymore :))))


	4. Old and Broken, Lost in Weathered Cliffs (Forgotten)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Masamune waits for its next wielder.

The sword rests, hilt trapped in rock and stone that will not give.

The blade is rusted. Old. _Useless_.

Had it not rested where it belongs, a stranger could have come across it. They would have presumed it were mere junk, waste, something that held no importance.

If the strength to wield such a tool had been disposed to merely anybody, the sword would probably be lost - yet not to the passing of time.

Junk gets disposed of. And, although this sword may have looked so, it was not junk. People, however, cannot see past the rust and dirt and grime. Trash is trash. It will be disposed of. 

But there is nobody to claim it. Not yet.

Masa and Mune wait patiently, as they always have, for the destined to come.

But whispers carry across the wind. Speech mixes with the rustling of leaves and the sway of branches.

A frog, they hear. Ashamed, hidden, disappeared.

Glenn, Cyrus. Gone.

Magus. War.

What the wind says is broken, not quite enough yet all too much.

Masa and Mune can only hold onto their broken blade, hope that fate will guide her disciple to truth.

But until then, the blade rusts. Junk, locked in rock and stone, and it decays. Forgotten.

The blade longs to be held once more, but it’s owner refuses. 

Shame holds back and the blade rots. 


	5. A Gale Blows, Sharp and Cold (Fight)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magus waits for the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eventually got to write my favourite scene in the game. obviously, like everything in this collection, it’s not exactly... great, but uhhh these are being whopped out in like 10-20 minutes so don’t expect too much quality.

The black wind howls and one of them is already dead.

Magus’ hands push against the soil. It’s soft, wet, damp. His fingers slide through it, getting sucked down into the earth.

It’s red, the soil. Clumps of red, as if the earth itself is bleeding out. Warm, too. As if it’s alive.

It’s his own blood, he realises.

Crimson, painting the grass. His blood. Him. _His_.

He feels a sudden sense of panic. The thought of death has never pained him like this before, but he supposed this is instinct. _Survival_, he thinks. Even when he’s lost all hope, his body still refuses to give in.

His hands slip, his fingers slide further into the ground. He feels as if he’s falling. Weightless, as though the wind could carry him away.

He thinks of Queen Zeal - he refuses to call her _mother_. She lost that title the second she devoted herself to that life-sucking parasite. She’s no mother. She’s just a power hungry fool, driven by her own sense of greed.

He thinks of young Janus, himself, really - but it’s not quite himself, is it? Janus, the old one, was different. If he knew the atrocities he’d commit later on in his life...

He’s no longer Janus. The name sounds tainted on his lips. Like he’s stealing it from somebody else.

He’s _Magus_ now.

He thinks of Schala. He thinks of why he came here, why he’s spent the last portion of his life hellbent on defeating Lavos.

Failure tastes bitter on his tongue. It mixes with the blood. It’s thick, heavy. He longs to spit it out.

He lifts his head up, struggling against the biting winds that blow cold against his skin.

Frog, or Glenn as he was once called, stands there.

The Masamune glints in his hands and the wind blows once more. It whispers and Magus feels a chill run down his spine.

He holds it up, the blade catching the sunset’s glow and reflecting it back into a spectrum of colour.

Magus doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. He doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He readies himself as Frog raises his blade, arching it out beside him, readying to strike.

Magus waits.

He steels himself for the hit, for the blade that will slice straight through him. He waits for death, the deep abyss that stares back at him.

He does not fear it. No, he revels in it.

_Do your worst, froggy._

There’s a pause.

Frog doesn’t move, his hands still clenched right around the hilt of his sword.

Magus can see it flash across his eyes. The pain, the torture. He sees the boy who he cursed so long ago, the one who had snivelled and wailed as Cyrus’ flesh had burned. He sees the boy who had frozen in place, unable to run, grasping desperately at the smouldering ashes of his closest friend. Longing for companionship, longing for guidance. Always longing, Glenn had been. So nervous, so insecure, so... _pathetic_.

Luminous yellow eyes blink slowly and Magus sees something else.

With a clatter, the Masamune drops to the floor.

Frog steps forward, hand outstretched towards him.

He inclines little green head, eyes holding a strength that had not been there so many years ago.

Magus hesitates.

He scowls. His eyes darken, his posture stiffens.

Frog smiles.

Magus reaches out, and Frog’s hand grasps his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmm see I was gonna make frog speak but I pussied out. I’ve only played the DS version but like I’d write him speaking archaic-ly but goddamn my brain cannot deal with that.
> 
> anyway, hope you enjoyed!!! :))))


	6. If We Go Forwards In Time (Friendship)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slight Crono/Marle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof I’m a day late with this one. It’s not very good bc I cba to read through it again and I wrote it during my break today so.... here’s a 10 minute word vomit.

“Are you gonna marry her?”

Crono looks up with a start, eyes blown wide as he splutters in protest. Lucca howls with laughter, eyes creased at the edges and grin spread wide.

“Hey, don’t be like that! It’s so obvious!” Crono flushes, averting his eyes as he decidedly looks towards the floor. He fiddled nervously with his hands, fingers picking awkwardly at his nails. He shakes his head once, then again - as if for emphasis. He pauses for a moment, blinks slowly, tilts his head. He fiddles with his hands some more. He inhales, then exhales loudly, blowing the air out in a puff.

Lucca watches him, her grin widening as he dithers. She’s used to reading Crono’s series of gestures and facial expressions. She wishes he’d talk more, but that’s just how he is. Strong and silent, she supposes- and she thought Frog was the fairytale hero.

He clears his throat, bringing her attention back to him. He coughs into his hand. He pauses, he blinks.

And then, ever so slightly, he nods.

Lucca’s smile is so wide that - for a brief moment - she wonders if it’s possible to split your face with such a grin. She claps her hands together, stepping forward and pulling Crono into a hug.

He stiffens ever so slightly, like always, but soon he hesitantly returns the embrace. With a soft pat on the shoulder and a right squeeze, Lucca retracts and her eyes crinkle up at him.

“You too are so cute! I knew it!”

Lucca pauses, hand poking her cheek.

“I better be your best man! Or... uh, woman. Ugh, Whatever! I better be the most important guest at your wedding!” She folds her arms obstinately, but a smile sneaks through her determined facade.

Crono flashes her a thumbs up, returning her smile tenfold.


	7. Sharp and Gold, in Your Palms and Against Your Skin (Hero)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frog wonders if he really does have what it takes to be a hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, I’m caught up again. This ones a bit longer but again I’ve not edited it at all. It probably needs some italics and grammar fixes here and there but I cba rn. Might revise it later, if I remember.
> 
> Regardless, hope you enjoy!!!!! :))))
> 
> EDIT: revised slightly for spelling errors. probably a few more still around, but hopefully nothing major.

“This is... the Masamune!” Frog gasps, voice breaking off in strangled croak. He feels the urge to hide from these people - real, human people - but he closes his eyes and steels himself.

“Ye... ye fixed the Masamune? Truly?”

He looks up at the strange group, luminous yellow eyes glowing in the dim of his home. “Why?” He can’t help but ask, croaking once more.

He simply cannot understand. The girl with the purple hair - Lucca, had it been? - had made her distaste with him clear when they had first met. He had shaken off her words with a toss of his head, but her coarse language had cut deep.

He is, of course, a frog. A slimy, horrible creature. All gangly limbs and long tongue, sickly green and brown skin that feels cold and clammy, an insufferable croak that follows his every breath.

He’s barely human. Aside from his language, his spoken tongue, he is indistinguishable from the monsters and mystics that succumb to the Fiendlord’s every will.

Even then, his words do not come as they once had. His language has grown unrecognisable, as if he had merely stepped out of a page in a fairytale.

He supposed that, although Magus had done many unforgivable things, he would much rather be a frog than dead.

But looking up at these young humans, even the strange looking metal thing, three with bright, eager eyes; he feels confusion.

Why would they want to help him?

Marle, the one who looks so similar to Queen Leene, although her hair is more wild and she doesn’t have the deep creased smile lines wrapping around her eyes like Leene does, steps forward towards him.

He resists the urge to step back, he resists the urge to flinch.

He can trust these people. They will not hurt him. They will not laugh, jeer, mock. They will not give him strange looks, hold their children back as he walks by or sidestep as he draws close. They will not treat him like a freak, a monster, a demon.

But he feels fear. A curling sensation in his gut, that freezing cold that makes him want to disappear.

Marle smiles at him, rosy cheeks soft yet grin large and sharp. “Don’t be silly, Frog! You’re our friend, we weren’t going to leave you on your own like this!” Chrono nods at her words, giving him a beaming smile. “Yeah!” Lucca states decisively, quickly coming forward to wrap her arms around Frog’s shoulders.

His instant response is to recoil, to get as far away as possible, but her touch is warm and he finds his discomfort fading. “I’ve decided,” she starts, voice slow and clear. “Frogs aren’t gross at all.” She jostles her arm against him, a gesture strangely familiar. It’s something he’s forgotten, a closeness like this to other people.

Queen Leene was fine company, always gentle and sympathetic. He had devoted her life to her after all, but they never had the time for matters such as this. She had a country to run, and he was a Royal Knight - and a chronic shut-in.

But this... companionship. True companionship. Even though he didn’t truly know these people, he felt a strange sense of warmth burn in his chest.

Crono extends his arms, the Masamune glinting in the dim light.

Frog takes it, only hesitating once.

As his hand settles round the hilt, he feels a gust of wind blow against him. The metal moulds against his skin, the sword fitting in his palm as if it were a part of him.

The strange metal contraption rolls forward, his own artificial arm outstretched.

Gingerly, Frog takes the Hero’s Badge from him. It glints gold, the metal so shiny he can see his own reflection in it.

A green face and bulbous eyes stare back at him.

But this time he does not flinch, he does not feel the shame he had once felt.

He slides the badge onto his pouch, the medal a warm weight against his thigh.

“I... I cannot thank thee enough.” He bows, knee bent and head arched downwards.

He doesn’t think he’s quite the hero they’re looking for, but there’s no harm in trying to be.


	8. An Imposter in the Same Clothes (Religion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frog is certain that this woman is not Queen Leene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this uhhhh barely follows the prompt religion but I really couldn’t think of anything else so here we are. 
> 
> (Again, not edited or proof read bc I am too lazy for this)

That isn’t Queen Leene.

Frog is almost certain of this as he slips out of the palace. He nods to the guards, a slow incline of the head as he hops by. They barely acknowledge him, just a mere blink of their eyes and small quirk of their lips.

The soldiers are quite fond of him. He supposed it’s the enchanted feel his presence spreads around the palace. A walking, talking frog was sure to be something out of the ordinary. Let alone the fact that this frog was an adept fighter. Frog could not be sure that their kindness was out of respect, but a sneer and a joke are much nicer than what he had expected upon his hesitant return.

He is certain this woman isn’t Leene - no matter how much she resembles her - because she did not have that same twinkle in her eye.

Leene had always treated him with respect, both as a young boy and the frog he was now. Of course, she had no idea that Glenn and Frog were one in the same, but never once had she shown distaste for his unusual form.

This ‘Leene’, the imposter, had been surprised to see him hop by. He had bowed to her, croaking, and she had stepped back in shock.

When he opened his mouth and spoke, Frog could see her thoughts flash plainly across her face.

Leene never wore her expressions so freely.

She was contained. She did not revel under the control she was faced with as Queen, but she had learned to accept it. This girl was not the same. She held the same fire of rebellion, the same strength and confidence that Leene possessed, but it was disorganised; wild.

This girl was not Queen Leene.

So he finds himself hopping towards the Cathedral. Rumours had been leaking out ever so slowly, tales of strange monsters and beasts taking home in the holy walls.

It had been dismissed as the ravings of a drunk man, soldiers had laughed off the ridiculous rumours, payed no heed to the warning below the words.

But Leene had last been spotted amongst the clustered trees just outside.

It could be no coincidence that her and her guards had vanished without a trace.

The fears amongst the palace-folk may have been quelled, but Frog was certain that the girl was not Queen Leene.

He approaches the cathedral, pushes his hands against the heavy oak doors.

They creak open and the light floods in.


	9. Well, This Was a Bad Idea (Lost)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Lost Sanctum does what it does best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lost Sanctum is garbage I’m sorry like why?? 
> 
> This is Not Good, but then I suppose that’s fitting considering it’s about the worst thing in Chrono Trigger.

“Wish this ‘Lost Sanctum’ would just... stay lost!” Lucca groans. “My legs _kill_.” She stomps her feet for emphasis, twirling her gun impatiently around her fingers. “It doesn’t help that we have to be with _him_.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, crouching slightly as she leans closer to where she thinks Frog’s ears are.

His bulbous eyes flicker towards her, and a strange expression - one that Lucca thinks is a smile - curls onto his face. “T’is not fun, but these people require our aid.” He pauses, swallowing. “Magus is... unpleasant, however I fear we cannot defeat Lavos without his aid.”

Lucca snorts, turning her head. “I don’t understand how you can just... forgive him like that. He... _killed your best friend.”_

She turns around to look at Magus, offering a half smile as they make eye contact. He returns her expression with a curled lip, eyes dark and brow furrowed. Lucca represses the urge to shiver. _God_, he gives her the creeps.

“Forgiveness is a strange thing. While his crimes are unforgivable... war is a complicated thing, lady Lucca.”

He hops ahead, hand against his sword as they near the top of the mountain.

“Besides, this... _place_, has made me realise that there are much worse things in life.”

They reach the peak of the mountain, nearing the bridge.

“Are they... _still_ building it?”

“You fool. We’re in the wrong era.”

“So... we have to climb all the way down... _again_?”

If looks could kill, the glare Magus shoots her... well, she’d be left with a fate worse than death.

Suddenly Lucca realises exactly what Frog had meant.

This was much, _much_ worse than death.


	10. Forget Me Nots in Golden Rings (Overgrown)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His body lays there, deep underground. People do not remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I’ve fallen a few days behind. This past week I’ve been super busy and there’s been some awful news so I haven’t really felt up to drawing AND writing. Hopefully I’ll catch up by this weekend but, uhhh, anyway; enjoy!!!

Cyrus’ grave stands alone.

Light filters through broken eaves and traces of silver touch the edges of weathered stone.

Cobwebs hang low, thick strands strewn like cotton, fabric torn and hung down in soft curves. Like a blanket thrown over the collapsed wooden beams, they cloud the abandoned grave like thick smog.

Grass sprouts up from gaps within stone. Golden leaves sprinkle down from the sky, falling between the gaps and cracks of a building long forgotten.

They land on the floor, a soft caress of sunset like fire against the unforgiving rock. They’re dead, and they will rot. But, for now, they remain beautiful.

Flowers spring up from around the grave, soft lilacs and lazy blues. Forget me nots, their tangled stems twist up down and left and right. They intertwine with one another until you cannot see where one starts and when one ends.

Rings of pink, yellow, white. They glow, soft, gentle.

They are bathed in silver light.

Forget me nots.

Yet Cyrus lays there,

Forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Cyrus so much okay like,,,,,


	11. A Tradition of Sorts (Shelter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s tradition now, really, that everyone is introduced to a very special someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is written poorly bc I had no ideas/motivation for this. But hey, whatever. Once I finish chronotober I swear I’ll start work on a polished Chrono trigger fic but rn I don’t have the time to edit and polish all of these drabbles.
> 
> Regardless, hope you enjoy xx

“Why are we _here_? In _this_ era? We should be preparing to defeat Lavos, not doing whatever... _this_ is.” Magus growls, hands clenched into tight fists as he lingers behind the group, feet barely touching the floor as he remains hidden beneath his cape.

“Stop your whining!” Marle huffs, not even bothering to look at the mage. She quickens her pace, falling in step with Crono. “You’ll see why we’re here in a minute!”

Lucca turns to glare back at Magus, scuffing her shoes against the floor. “I don’t see why _he_ has to do this too.” She grinds out through her teeth.

“Magus is how part of the team. It makes perfect sense for him to visit Crono’s-“ Robo is cut off by an insistent Lucca. “But he’s not _really_ part of the team!” Marle nods along with Lucca, looking over her shoulder to give Magus an icy glare.

The mage seems unbothered, the scowl permanently on his face no darker and his furrowed brow no deeper.

“Why no want Magus?” Ayla shouts from afar, before disappearing from view - running ahead, somewhere. She doesn’t even bother waiting for a reply, her attention caught by a rustling of leaves in a nearby tree.

Marle and Lucca both open their mouths, tongues ready with a million reasons as to why they shouldn’t trust him. Crono cuts them off with a raised hand, shaking his head.

He gestures over to Frog - or Glenn now, as Magus calls him - who’s not spoken a word. He hops along, standing closer to Magus than Lucca or Marle would dare. He seems unbothered by the mage’s presence, his composure always perfectly maintained, never once faltering.

The group are not quite sure as to why Frog is the way he is, but they’re all certain his green form has something to do with Magus.

His seeming trust for Magus always takes Lucca and Marle by surprise. Not for the first time, they’re struck by the realisation that Frog is strong in more ways than just physically.

“Trust me, if it wasn’t for that green-skinned freak, I wouldn’t be here with you.” Frog croaks in what might be a laugh, although you can never be sure with Frog. “Thou art forgetting, ‘tis thee who made me this way.”

Frog croaks again as Magus burrows deeper into his cloak, pulling the cloth over his prominent ears as they reach the nearby village.

Ayla leaps out from behind, hands grasping Magus’ shoulders before running ahead. “Ayla excited! Ayla like Gina!” She turns around with a broad grin, before running to one of the little cottages. Crono follows her, a broad smile wore plain on his face as Ayla bangs insistently against the homely wooden door.

The entire group quickens their pace, even Robo - who can’t really look happy - seems to be whirring with a sense of excitement.

Magus steadily keeps his distance from the rest of the group as they cluster around the door.

He can’t stop himself from peering curiously over their shoulders as the door freaks wide open, however.

“Ah! Crono! It’s so lovely to see you, dear!” A bright, cheery voice rings out.

“And Lucca, you’re looking well. Marle, dear, I hope you’ve been looking after my boy!” The person lets out a tut, and Magus can just about spy a bundle of messy blonde hair. “Ayla! It’s lovely to see you again, but I wish you’d dress... more appropriately. It’s getting closer and closer to winter, I don’t want you to freeze!” The voice pauses for a second, sighing as Ayla shakes her head vehemently. “Ayla like clothes! No change!”

They sigh, leading Magus to believe that this is an ongoing argument between the two.

“Hello, Robo! Goodness, has Lucca been updating your parts? And Frog, are you sure you wouldn’t prefer another name... it’s just... well, I hope you’ve been doing well.”

The voice, soft and comforting - like being wrapped in a warm blanket - continues to worry and fuss over each member of their ragtag team.

Eventually, their voice dies down and - although Magus still cant quite see the person - he sees Crono gesture towards him.

The group steps back, eventually allowing him a clear view of the speaker.

He’s a bit disappointed, if he’s being honest. It’s just a... middle aged woman. She’s got unruly blonde hair, straggly ends falling over her face and into her eyes. Her apron is messily tied around her waist, her face tired and worn but glowing with the strength of sunlight.

“Oh, and who’s this? My, you’re awfully tall! Are you one of Crono’s friends? I’m his mother, you know. It’s awfully nice to meet you, I-“

She continues to speak, her voice sweet like treacle. She fusses about him, walking closer towards him - not without straightening Crono’s scarf and trying to clean Lucca’s glasses.

There’s something so... familiar about this scene. He’d never had a mother, not really. He thinks she’d been like this once... but he was too young to remember. But, for some reason, he feels... strange.

And so, despite himself, Magus smiles.


	12. At the End of Time (Quiet)

“They don’t understand what magic is, do they?” Spekkio asks, peeking from behind the carved oak door. Gaspar lets out a sigh, the bristles of his moustache fluttering. “No. Not truly.” 

His hands, weathered and wrinkled with veins that stand stark against his pale skin, wrap around the curved edge of his old cane.

He lifts it once, twice, three times; each time bringing it down with a heavy tap against the crumbling bricks.

“They may understand, later, or they may never truly know. It does not matter. They are strong, and they know enough to use it wisely.” Gaspar’s fingers rise to the rim of his bowler hat. He lowers it, shielding his eyes from view.

“They understand the weight that their abilities carry. And, even if they did not, they are our only hope.”

Gaspar nods, tracing the rim of his bowler hat with one extended finger. The conversation is over, Spekkio gives a short bow and steps back, disappearing in the cloak of black behind the door.

Silence grows, the familiar rush of nothing something Gaspar has grown used to in his existence in here. He does not know how long he has been surrounded by the void, stood by his lamppost that shines light through the dark. He could have been here for eons, millennia. Or maybe he has been here for mere seconds, a blink of the eye or an inhale of air.

Time does not exist at the End. Instead, silence burns thick and fast. 

Spekkio is pleasant enough company, but Gaspar’s job is truly a lonely one.

So he stands, hands on his cane, back against the lamppost, and he waits.

A shout, a laugh, a sigh. Noise smashes through the silence that had stretched endlessly, and Gaspar spies a shock of spiked red hair. 

He inhales, raising his head and lowering his hat. 

“Welcome back.”


	13. And What Was Written Down is Burned to Ashes (Memories)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly this part of the game broke me. I’m pretty sure most people have fucked this bit up at some point and oh my god is it absolutely harrowing.

Lara sits beside the window and wonders.

The sky glows bright, blue flush bleeding across the sky, bleached by the sun’s blinding rays.

She can feel the heat of summer through the glass window. It’s hot against her skin and she longs to go outside.

She rests her hands against her legs. Gently, she traces her fingers down her thigh. It tickles, the fabric of her dress soft and velvety.

Her fingers reach her knees, resting just above the bone, and all feeling stops.

She doesn’t have to look at her legs to know the scarred mess that remains.

Taban had fixed her up as best as he could, salvaged what he could of her legs.

She had felt like one of his inventions, her own body tinkered and experimented with. But she remembered the tears down his face, salted tracks that had run raw and red down his cheeks.

Lucca had watched from behind the door, purple hair peeking from between the hinges. She had not been allowed in, Lara remembers. She had screamed and cried and wailed, the red that painted the walls still fresh in her mind.

Taban had fixed her. She’d been lucky that most of the injuries were superficial. Of course, she’d never be able to walk again, or feel anything in her legs, but it was much better than the alternative.

But Lara traces the edges of the skin she cannot feel, fingertips rising and falling against the scarred skin that she’ll never get rid of.

She blinks, breathes in. Exhales.

And then, from somewhere deep within her memory, a light flickers.

L-A-R-A

She blinks, breathes in. Exhales.

She stands up and her old memories fade away. There are no scars. There was no accident.

Just a very close call.

And somewhere, in a place far away, Lucca’s feet return to forest grounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ending is trash I’m sorry


	14. Out of the Window, We Watched as it Settled in (Thought)

Young Janus, face not yet darkened with the cruel passing of time, sits beside the window. His hands drum against the dark mahogany of his desk and his pale fingers trace the edges of golden lace - the kind of fabric his mother loved; soft, velvet, expensive.

Alfador leaps up onto his lap, claws that need trimming scratching insistently against his arms. He smiles, young eyes bright and filled with a strange sense of whimsical wonder. Gently, he runs his knuckles across Alfador’s soft fur. The lilac hairs tickle against his palms and he finds the motion soothing.

Light falls down in fragile beams, rays of sunlight easing through the panelled windows. Where the bright meets stained glass, it disperses into a spectrum of colours, water-coloured reds and greens and blues painting his skin in a fairytale image.

But the wind blows and a blackness settles in.

He can feel the rigid bumps of Alfador’s spine tense. Hackles raised and ears pushed back, Alfador let’s out a hiss, spit flying from between his bared teeth.

He leaps onto the table, sharp claws catching on the golden lace. He pulls it, shimmering thread coming lose, the beautiful patterns disappearing into a mass of tattered ends.

He paws at the window, long nails scratching insistently at the glass.

The wind blows again and Janus feels a sinking in his chest.

A flash, a slight projection before his eyes.

He sees a hint of red hair, hears the roar of a terrifying beast. His breath comes out in hot puffs and his hands grow clammy. Blood pounds in his ears and emotions of hopelessness settle in.

The black wind howls, he thinks. It’s dark tendrils whispering words into his ears.

A flash of light, and something within Janus disappears.

Death, he realises.

Somebody will die.


	15. Light That Howls in the Depths of Your Mind (Deceased)

Crono pushes himself up on wobbly arms. His very skin seems to be a light with fire, every single part of him tortured by unbelievable pain.

He had known Lavos was powerful... but for just one attack to instantly wipe them all out...

His hands shake, his fingers look thin and skeletal where his skin pinches and shows bone.

Marle, Lucca, Robo, Ayla, Frog. His mother, Schala, Gaspar. The people he’s met and the people he has yet to meet, their faces flash before his eyes.

He goes to stand, legs almost buckling under his own weight. Is this dying? Is this what dying feels like?

With unmeasurable amounts of effort, he drags his feet that feel like lead forwards. He can’t even lift them up off the floor and he feels nausea build up his throat. It tastes bitter.

He winces, but he does not give up.

Queen Zeal stands above Lavos, her lilac hair fallen about her in disarray. Her robes are torn and her face appears sunken, eyes shadowed by purpled bags that look like bruises.

But she smiles, and her teeth flash with hunger.

Chrono walks. He nears Lavos, sees the parasite that destroyed the world with his very own eyes.

He breathes, hands grasping the hilt of his sword.

A chill shivers down his spine, a gale of wind blowing in his ears.

Lavos opens its gaping maw and sharp light that scalds and blisters tumbles out.

The black winds howl and the darkness is all Crono can see.


	16. Ice That Freezes Harsh and Cold (Woe)

Melchior’s skin freezes. His fingers claw desperately from within blocks of ice.

It burns, strangely hot, fire alight on his fingertips and scalding on his nose.

The world around him is muffled, washed out by sheets of ice that cloud with his breaths.

The outside is frosted, his sight fallen beneath layers and layers of unforgiving cold.

Silence envelops his every thought. A darkness that is much worse than the burning of ice or the emptiness of his lungs.

He is left, alone, frozen in a portion of time.

While he feels his mind whir, his body age by seconds and minutes and hours, the stagnant nature of ice pulls at the loose threads of his mind.

With nothing to distract him from the open void, the abandon of hopelessness that stares back at him, he finds himself slipping.

Queen Zeal’s eyes flicker through his mind, the expression that had haunted them in a bout of black wind.

She had appeared crazed, insane. Gone.

Because that is what she was, what she is.

Gone.

Queen Zeal had not stared back at him as he had been encased in ice.

Queen Zeal had not banished the Gurus, fear pooling beneath her tensed hands.

No, that was Lavos.

The parasite that fed on the world, fed on life itself, had gnawed at her brain until there was nothing left.

So Melchior worries, because there is nothing else that he can do.

He remains trapped, stuck on the Mountain of Woe.


	17. A World By Our Own Plans (Creation)

Lavos whispers in her mind. It’s voice, it’s power, surges through her blood in muffled pulses and wicked howls. She feels the desire like a caged animal in her stomach. Powerful claws scratch and cut her insides until her heart is ripped into ribbons.

Her brain, the fleshy pink soft and vulnerable beneath hardened bone, falls to pieces.

Lavos’ cry, a bottomless pit of something her lips can’t say, flickers like candlelight behind her eyes.

Her hands itch and she longs for something else in this world.

Life is not enough.

She feels Lavos’ urge to feed upon the plant itself. Bloodlust builds like bile in the back of her throat. Part of her longs to spit it out, to be free of a parasite’s vicious words, but life stares back at her and she swallows.

Eternal power draws her closer. The idea of never ending, eternal, infinite. It speaks to her in a way nobody else can.

She sees her children, but they appear translucent like glass. Schala tries to stop her, she speaks of mindless things that she cannot comprehend. She looks at her, her own daughter, the girl who shares her lilac hair and slanted eyes. She looks at the girl she created and cannot see where her feet touch solid ground. Transparent, she can see right through her. Fragile. Her daughter is weak. She does not understand.

But she is willing.

So she manipulates. She feeds on the pride of her people, she creates a world where the Enlightened are superior. She feeds on the surface dwellers, their sadness, their pain. The cold winds that blister around them, the age of ice that mottles skin to black and kills babies still in cradles, it feeds her. She grows stronger.

Lavos whispers in her mind and the part that had once fought back retreats.

A part of herself, a shadow that lingers behind the light that Lavos brings, falls to broken pieces.

It disappears, lost behind a glow that burns.

Death lingers and she stands with Lavos. The black winds howl, but they blow past.

She stands and her heart falls to pieces.


	18. Inside Your Own Head (Travel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay I’m like a day behind and I have been for like a week but I will get all of these done I swear.
> 
> As always, these are unedited, unplanned and literally written in one go. Spelling mistakes to be expected.

Belthasar finds the future a dismal place.

The world, the very earth that he stood upon, was dead. Grass no longer grew, no life blossomed from beneath the dry soil and from the dull sun’s rays.

Life had stagnated. Stopped altogether.

He knows there are survivors, somewhere. Someone had built this dome, after all. Maybe there were more. More domes, more life - or, could it really be called life? Or existence. Nobody could truly live in a place like this. Not even him.

But he knows that he cannot be alone in this ruin of a world.

It’s that flicker of hope, that glint of light, that draws him in like a moth to a flame.

The concept of travelling through time, splitting the very fabric of the universe and manipulating it between your own two hands, the thought consumes him.

Every waking hour he spends discovering the technology of an era long gone, trying to understand the language these machines speak and the way he can manipulate them to create what he wants.

He finds sheets of metal from his dome. He pulls them down, beats them into shapes and moulds them into a whole new form.

His hands itch, he feels a hunger for answers. A desire to change the past.

His mind whirs with waterfalls of ideas, so he remains there. He stays within his head until he can no longer comprehend a world outside it.

Years pass and his creation takes true shape. His hands itch and he longs to finish it.

The madness eats him from inside out and he can feel himself slipping.

But... he has to finish it. He has to do something. Anything. Make a change.

So he sits, his head gone but his fingers warm against sheets of metal.

He will finish this if it’s the last thing he does.


	19. Strength In Our Bones That Turn To Dust (Strength)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m 3 days behind oops, hopefully I’ll pick up the pace. I’ve got 3 days left until half term hits, so there’s no excuse for me to be behind after that. hopefully I’ll catch up with stuff soon.

Crono is dead and Marle doesn’t feel anything.

It’s the shock, she thinks. That’s what it is.

Death, well, it had been something they’d escaped for so long. Even with that boy’s - Janus, she thinks his name was - warning, they had not been prepared.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

They had entered the Ocean Palace with heavy hearts. Marle did not know what the black winds were, but the air had felt thick. Like treacle, water. As if she were drowning.

She had thought it would have been her. She would be the one to die.

She already had, before. When history had changed its course, when she had replaced Leene, when she had stopped existing all together.

It had hurt, not existing. A strange sort of pain, a stab in the heart, a puncture of the lungs.

She had died before and she had been prepared to do so again.

She knows Frog had felt something akin to that. There were shadows beneath his eyes, grief that consumed him from within. She wondered sometimes if death was what he wanted. If death would grant him peace from lingering thoughts and pained memories. Or maybe he longed to fight, to prove himself as a hero.

Robo didn’t understand such concepts. He would never really die, not totally anyway. He could be broken, his arms could be pulled off and the metal of his body could be melted to liquid, but he was a machine. He is not alive now, not truly. As long as his memory drives remain intact, Robo will always survive.

Ayla fears nothing. She charges towards danger headfirst, never stopping to think. In her mind, such matters are black and white. The strong will survive, and she is strong. Marle wishes she could have such thoughts.

Lucca, too. Marle knows she doesn’t want to die. Knows it in the way Lucca come he’s her hands tight around her gun, the way she picks at the skin on her lips and the way she’s always the last to go to sleep.

But she is prepared, they are all prepared to die.

And then Crono does.

That, in all the possibilities that had ever crossed Marle’s mind, had been something impossible.

Never, not once, had she ever entertained the thought of such a thing.

But now he was gone, and they must go on.


	20. Down In Your Fingers When You Pray to the Gods (Break)

Schala’s hands clench into tight fists. She winces at the pain, the feeling of her nails digging crescents into the palms of her hands.

She closes her eyes and her pendant glows, enveloping her in soft blue light.

The power of the Mammon Machine thrums through her. A pounding of her blood, a rush of breath. Lavos’ strength burns red hot through her veins.

Her mother stands over her, thinner hands that were once not so wrinkled. They cup her face, weathered fingers tracing the soft curve of her jaw.

Her mother smiles down at her, eyes almost gentle and touch almost like something she had once had.

She can see Lavos’ control, the hot fire of hatred that shimmers in shadows behind Zeal’s eyes. She can feel the tremor of her hands, the tightening of her skin.

She does not care for her, not truly. She is only loved as long as she can harness this power, control the Mammon Machine.

This is not love, this is not her mother.

But, it is close enough.

She closes her eyes and prays. The smile her mother gives is more of a snarl, rabid, wild. But it is a smile and her hard eyes soften.

Schala inhales, feels Lavos’ strength in her fingertips.

She exhales and glows under her mother’s love.

The seal breaks and Schala’s hands burn like fire.


	21. Far Above What Those Can See (Ancient)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof I’m well behind.

The kingdom of Zeal glows under the sun’s rays. White, marbled buildings climb towards the light, swirls of purple and pink and blue trapped in sheets of glass and stone.

The surface lingers below, the biting winds something forgotten, hidden by mountains of rock and dirt.

The grass that grows on this land is green, new, blossoming with life.

Flowers grow, colour speckled between endless green that blends into blue sky. Life blooms into something else, something that whispers amongst trees that never reach the stars and temples that never seem to crumble.

Zeal floats between two worlds. Too high to stay upon the surface, too grand to live with those not blessed with magic lingering in their fingerprints. Yet it remains too low to touch the cosmos, the endless galaxy out of reach.

Power lingers from above, the same sky that had glowed crimson so many millions of years ago.

Zeal stands for a purpose. A way to separate those who deserve more than those who cannot free the elements from their skin. The bloodline of the enlightened flows with a power that had once been impossible, a force that places these people at the peak of all humankind.

But when new power is taken, fire from the core of Lavos’ womb, there is no need for such a place.

It falls and it reaches the cold winds.

The enlightened return their feet to solid ground, and their race becomes a thing of the past.


	22. Rays That Never Quite Reached the Surface (Enchanted)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, I knocked this one out in a grand total of 6 minutes djskjfng.

The Sun Stone shimmers in all the colours of the rainbow, bright light reflected back in its smooth surface.

The sunlight, an endless source of hope, even when Lavos feeds upon the surface of the earth, is a constant that remains.

No matter what happens, it’s rays always reach the temple where the stone lies.

The burning heat of an era where humans could not yet speak fluently. The biting winds of a time where the sky fell down.

An era where man strives for something more and divisions overflowed between magic wielders and mortals.

A place where the past was fading, but snippets of time were praised in song and dance, memories of people long gone set free in floating confetti and sky high balloons.

And the future, the end of the world as it had been known. The destruction of life, the rise of machines that were overcame the restraints coded into their wires.

The world shifted, each new generation losing something that had once been held dear.

New life was born, even when hope ran scarce, and the need for survival continued

But, always, the Sun Stone lingered. It absorbed the strength of light, the strength of hope, and shone it back in a rainbow shimmer.


	23. Pictures in Your Little Stories (Legend)

There are stories. Myths, legends, strange and mystical tales of a time long before.

Children listen with bright eyes, mouths left slack open as their parents and their grandparents open up a door to a world where elements poured from skin like rivers of light and shadow.

Long ago, they say. Long ago, people who could summon the power of fire or the biting cold of ice would roam this very earth.

They have stood on the ground you do now, people would say.

They once lived and breathed, enjoyed their life on this earth we share today.

Their feet touched this very soil. They sowed the magic that courses through their blood into the very atmosphere.

Parts of their soul, their will, live on in the rush of a river, the steamed sigh on a cold winter morning. The fire within a stove, the shadows of trees and the light of the sun.

Magic is merely a myth, something lost in bones deep underground.

The power is gone, but forever it’s memory lingers.


	24. In a Future That Will Never Exist (Dream)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay Crono/Marle isn’t my fave ship in this fandom but goddamn it makes me s o f t

Marle dreams of a simpler time, a simpler age. some time in the future.

Not the long future, the one where the ground is scalded into shadows of death and the sky lingers with thick black smoke.

No, she dreams of a future not too far from now.

When they defeat Lavos - not if, when. There is no doubt in her mind, they will succeed - there is a life she sees in the depths of her dreams.

It is simple. Maybe not much, nothing grand, nothing incredibly interesting to unique.

A little cottage. One with a bright red door and plant pots lining the windows. Surrounded by nature, trees that bear fruit like pears and apples. Flowers that blossom into all the colours of a rainbow.

It is not much. Not a lot for a princess, but she wants it like she has never wanted something before.

She can see it in her mind. She imagines waking up to the feel of sunlight warm against her skin. Soft light easing through agape curtains.

She shifts, shuffling closer to the warm heat that rests beside her.

Hands enclosed in his, they simply exist within one another’s space. They sleep the morning away, protected by soft blankets and the beating of two hearts.

He kisses her forehead, lips soft on her skin. She smiles, and draws herself closer to him.

She dreams of a life where she is not a princess. Where the rules don’t dictate who she can and can’t marry, where she can spend an eternity with the person she truly loves.

She knows that it cannot happen, yet she still dreams of it.


	25. Nobody to Hold it Close (Pendant)

The pendant falls and Crono disappears.

Marle watches it drop, it’s soft gold embellishments catching the strange, dismal light that glowfrom within the Ocean Palace.

It clatters to the floor, long chain tinkling in a broken wail. Like child’s laughter, it falls. But the sound is cut off, the dull thud of the pendant cutting it off.

Marle feels a part of her crumble. Her resolve that she had managed to keep up all this time... her smiles, her laughter. The brightness in her eyes that banished the fear of the unknown.

It broke, snapped like that pendant’s chain.

She’s falling with it. She’s falling, long and far and deep. She’s falling and the ground beneath her disappears.

Everything she had once known was gone.

The life she had expected, the life she had designed in her own head. It had shattered, smashed, disappeared.

She had grown complacent in their adventures. Spurred on by the endless strength of her friends, the endless beacon of hope that they had shone her way.

Death hadn’t been an option in her head. Victory had glowed bright, the glistening temptation of freedom, the desire to change the course of the future...

Not once had she thought of a time where things would go wrong.

Maybe she had grown arrogant, overconfident in their own abilities. She had genuinely believed they would be strong enough to stop Lavos...

They hadn’t even been given a chance to attack. She hadn’t even managed to raise her crossbow before needles of wind had poured down from the heavens.

One hit, that was all it had taken. One singular hit to render their entire team useless.

She had never felt pain, such raw strength like it. Instantly, she had found herself unable to move. Completely paralysed under the spasming of her muscles desperately trying to compensate for the fire that burned through them.

The rest of her team, her companions, her friends, had been no better off.

But Crono... he had somehow found a Sao of strength still left within him.

He had stood up, faced that demon with is sword clenched in trembling hands.

She could see the pain on his face, the hurt that tore his features into something ragged and broken.

But he had stood. He had stepped closer, inching his legs across the floor. Advancing, nearer and nearer. Closer... his sword raised... and then...

Then he died.

Lavos shot light that burned hot. A beam of fire that burned him from the inside out.

Crono died and his pendant - the one she had given him so long ago - fell to the ground.


	26. Where There is Light (Dark)

The Kingdom of Zeal is illuminated under the careful hands of the Enlightened.

The world does not sleep, the sun may set beneath the clouds but there is always a shock of lighting, a rush of fire. Zeal is never darkened by the world, and that is constant.

Books that speak of the magic of old. Ones that teach children how to control the water that spills from their palms and the light that falls around them.

They are taught, nurtured, learn to fear a world where they cannot control everything.

They are taught to fear death. To see the darkness, the end of time, as a weakness.

Don’t become like those on the surface, they are told.

Learn your magic, let it grow with you until you despise those who have nothing in their bloodlines. Those who are weak, destined to be worthless and rot beneath the clouds. Fear them and stay up here, stay in a perfect world.

So that’s what they do. Without realising, they become fearful of death, fearful of the passing of time. Zeal protects them, Zeal is safe.

The Mammon Machine doesn’t feel right. The magic that it brings holds an edge that strikes at their lungs. But when the alternative is death, they bow before it’s power.

So Zeal is perfect. A haven from the frozen earth.

Lavos’ power is warm, so they let it into their hearts. Trust it. Trust it and live.


	27. Lies Under the Eyes of Something Else (Faith)

They don the garb of the holy. Pulling their hair back, blonde tendrils of snake-like hair hidden under dark robes.

The white collar, starched and stiff, is wrapped tight around their throats. It pulls their chins upwards, restricting their movement just enough to make their fingers twitch and their impatience boil.

Eyes always lowered, just in case, they hold their hands in prayer.

If one were to step closer, to peer beneath the shrouded fabric and stare into their eyes, they would see something inhuman.

Yellowish eyes, marred with red veins that line the rims of their eyelids. Lips, painted with soft pink, yet hints of mottled green still poke through.

They’re teeth, as well. If one were to look just so, they would see the sharpened fangs that nibble at their lower lips, they would see the red that stains their mismatched mouths, the blood stuck underneath taloned hands.

But nobody thinks to enter the cathedral.

No soldiers arrive, not even one person steps through the heavy doors of the church.

So they murmur their prayers, hidden beneath the holy light that never quite hits their skin.

Their eyes roll in their heads, tongues speaking of a language forgotten by humankind.

They have the queen. If everything goes to plan...


	28. Reluctant Companionship (Injury)

Magus lets out a hiss of pain, teeth worrying his bottom lip as his hand desperately tries to cover the wound.

Blood seeps through this fingers, thick and dark and stark against his pale skin.

The cut is deep, flesh torn up in jagged lines, red growing deeper and darker as it sinks further into the skin of his forearm.

Grinding his teeth, he wills himself to hold back against the pain. He must hide his weakness, especially in his current company. He doesn’t want to appear anything other than unapproachable when near his unconventional companions.

But he knows that he has no more healing items. He used the last of his Hi-Potions a few fights ago, and he’d been resorting to pouring bottles upon bottles of the almost useless Potion bottles he’d collected throughout his life. They barely healed anything, their properties far too weak to make offer any sustainable aid, but they had done the job.

Not for the first time, Magus wished he’d learned how to effectively heal with magic. It’s one of the reasons he’s never allowed to stray anywhere by himself.

Of course, there’s the whole ‘you tried to kill us, why would we trust you to be alone?’ spiel that Lucca gives him every time he so much as looks away from the group, but there’s also the fact that - like it or not - his strength is simply too useful to waste. By himself, although that is how it has always been, is far too risky in the eyes of this ragtag bunch of freaks.

It is safer if he is always accompanied by someone can heal. So far, he’s been saddled with that hunk of metal, occasionally Ayla will be partnered with him, although he cannot abide her foolish speech and simple mindedness.

Marle refuses to spend time alone with him, and Frog... well, Magus had thought nobody would have been stupid enough to think they’d make a good pair, yet he finds himself once again surprised by the sheer stupidity of this group.

So he hides his injury, because it’s Frog. Even if he’d been stabbed through the heart, if he were seconds away from death, he would welcome the great abyss over asking for help from the slimy amphibian.

It doesn’t sit right with Magus. Frog should detest him, want him dead where he stands. And he does, or so he says.

His hands flutter towards the Masamune as if he truly means the words he speaks, yet Magus can see the light in his eyes.

It’s a light that has diminished since they last crossed paths. It is the light that had shone bright under Cyrus’ shadow. A light of innocence, a reluctance to hurt others.

That light, Magus had thought, had been burned out all those years ago when young Glenn lost everything.

But it had not.

A flicker remained and the more time Magus spends with Frog, the more he can see it. Part of him wants to smother the flame, kill every part of the snivelling fool that longs for such peace.

But another part, the part he truly fears, is the side of him that feels guilt. Young Glenn, so young and hopeful. He lost everything he had known, been flung into an unfamiliar world.

Yet he was a hero. And what was Magus? How did the rest of the world see him?

“Thou art hurt.” Frog croaks and Magus, in some act of self preservation, tries to hide his bloodied arm beneath his cloak.

But Frog’s hands, cold and clammy yet not as unpleasant as one would think, tug insistently at the arm, pulling it forwards.

“Watch it, Froggy.” Magus growls, but his words hold no bite. The wound is till bleeding profusely, it hurts and he feels a dizziness that is most certainly down to blood loss.

Frog ignores him, twisting his arm as he inspects the wound.

Magus can see the flicker in Frog’s bulbous eyes. The light he longed to put out, yet the light that offered him comfort.

If Frog could still find compassion for a creature such as himself... then, maybe... if he finds her...

“Do not speaketh of this to anyone.”

Before Magus can even formulate a reply, Frog’s long, pinkish tongue is flung out. Watching in horror, Magus shivers as the appendage wraps itself around his forearm, the saliva warm and disgustingly slimy against his skin.

But there is a tingling sensation, something warm and soft, that soothes his wound.

The bleeding begins to slow, before stopping altogether, and Magus watches as his torn flesh gradually begins to close.

Frog keeps his tongue wrapped tight around Magus’ arm until all that remains of the injury is a soft white scar.

Frog’s tongue retracts, leaving Magus’ arm, damp and growing cold under the blustery winds, held out, frozen.

“Why did I turn you into a frog?”


	29. Trapped Beneath Layers of Flesh (Element)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly this makes 0 sense and I’m just rambling about vague magic things. I’ve had to write 5 today bc I’ve done nothing all week so I’m kinda just uhhhhhhhhh writing literally anything that comes to mind.

The elements of magic build the foundations of the world.

They had not always existed, not in a way that could be seen as something real. It had not been tangible, the powers under people’s skin not yet something that could be harnessed or controlled.

Those in the time Before had felt power that would be lost, but their hands had not carried the strength to release it. They had manifested it in different ways.

Ayla, named after the fire from deep beneath the earth’s surface, had magic that ran through her veins.

But it would not surface. She could not set the world alight with the tap of a finger. It simply would not arise.

But the power lingered, an element of something else.

Her fists were enough, as it was back in times before the blistering cold.

Her fists would keep her alive and she did not need the fire. She could make her own, instead. With twigs and leaves and stones.

But once the magic began to grow, once people could harness its power, the world began to shift.

Although it is possessed by all, the strings of magic ability, the fiery warmth of blood and the rush of tears. The brightest smiles and the darkest glares, they all manifested the elements of the world that had not yet been picked apart.

Yet they, just like their ancestors, could not get the magic from past their fingertips.

So it was taught.

The ways of those who could learn, the ways of those who spun ice from the palms of their hands and shadows from the chill of their breaths. They would teach and spread their power throughout the lands.

The Enlightened, they were called.

And, when the opportunity was given to them, they abandoned those they had once lived with.

A chance to escape the icy ruins of mankind. A chance to live above the clouds, where they would be the most powerful of all.

So they took it, and those left on the surface, those who could not make fire with their fingertips, learned how to survive through other means.

They collected their sticks, their leaves, their rocks. They made do, without their magic.


	30. Blood Against Your Skull (Summoning)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fuck I’m two months late but who cares I’m back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I cheat and change the publication date to 31 October, even though it’s the 5th December????? you bet your ass I did

His blood roars in his ears, he can taste it in his mouth. Like metal, foreign and strange, it scalds his tongue.

He gulps and the pressure increases. His head hurts, brain pulsating against his skull, ready to burst, reader to explode.

His fingernails dig through the thick leather of his gloves. Clenched so tightly, that he can feel the dig of crescent moons in the palm of his hands. 

He can smell the blood, the darkness, the shadow that burns like black fire all around him.

From his throat, he produces those deep, guttural echoes of a language long forgotten. His words are archaic; a relic of past worlds, but he can remember each syllable, each rise and lilt to this chant as though he is just a young boy again, as though he is Janus once more and he is watching with tear-blurred eyes as his mother slips away from him.

Lavos’ power surges beneath his skin and Magus finds himself brought to temptation.

He can feel It. That raw strength, that unimaginable energy, the flow of that parasites will, it’s desire to destroy.

A part of him, the part of him that is forever intertwined with his mother, feels the urge to take it, swallow the fire and shadow and to become one with Lavos.

But footsteps echo from across the chamber. Four pairs of feet against stone floor and ragged carpet. 

He looks up and all he can see is green. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ik I’m late by a few days, but these are super short and I can write them in about 10-20 minutes so hopefully I should catch up by this weekend. Hope you guys enjoy xx :)))


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